


Not in the Stars But in Ourselves

by Scrappysweater



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, On the surface, Other, Papyrus gets told "no" and Does Not Take it Well, Reader is Nonbinary, Secretly romantic Papyrus, Sibling Bonding, Slow Burn, Soulmate AU, reader has a younger brother
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24193186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrappysweater/pseuds/Scrappysweater
Summary: Monsters know their soulmates as soon as they see them. Humans do not. Papyrus believes in fate. You do not. Includes nonbinary reader, sibling shenanigans, references to Shakespeare, Tarot, and video games, and a stubborn Papyrus trying to stoke the fire of a slow burn as everyone else chokes on the smoke.
Relationships: Papyrus (Undertale)/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	Not in the Stars But in Ourselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You stop for coffee and meet a strange skeleton. You're very tired.

Fancy coffee is a frivolous thing to spend money on. Fast-food coffee costs less than a dollar and is served quickly, making it your usual choice on evenings like this, evenings after shift work when you're drained enough to be a driving hazard, and even the bags under your eyes ache. Fast-food coffee is a cheap and convenient pick-me-up, and sometimes you even indulge in a greasy meal to take home to your brother. No cooking, no dishes. On evenings like this, it's tempting. 

The smell of dark roast is also tempting. Damn this plaza, squishing such an enticing shop next to your usual grease-trap. You stand on the sidewalk, hypnotized by the scent and the warm glow that spills from the windows of the new bookshop cafe. It beckons you. _Come in_ , it says, _come in from the autumn chill. Rest. Enjoy a hot cup of coffee. While you're at it, why not buy a book or four?_

You cringe inwardly. It's a bad idea. You know if you go in, you'll end up spending more than you mean to. You always do. There is no way you have the money or time for books right now, you scold yourself. Better to hit the Mcdonald's and – 

Ocarina music cuts through your thoughts. For a moment you glance around to see who’s playing before you realize _duh_ and grab your phone.

"Hey, bubba. You get my text?" Forcing back a yawn, you lean against the side of the building.

"Yeah,” replies. "Hey, I ordered pizza. The wait time is like 45 minutes. Are you gonna be home by then?”

Wow, the pizza place must be really backed up. You can definitely be home before then, the house is only 15 minutes away, but…

"Uh, I'll be back probably around the time the pizza gets there," you say, biting the inside of your cheek. "There are coupons on the fridge."

"Okay. Love you.”

"Love you too."

Looks like you _are_ treating yourself tonight. 

You slip through the glass doors with a grin. The cafe slash coffee shop is small, but comfortably so. A small bar and tables are set up in the front corner where a young barista longingly eyes the pastry display. Across the way is the checkout counter, though in place of a cashier is a sign that reads ‘on break, back soon!’ Beyond that carpet replaces polished hardwood and the walls are full all the way to the ceiling with jam-packed shelves. Most of the books are clearly second-hand, well-loved, and spine-strained, their paper scent tinged with an edge of sweetness only found in old books. Additional shelves line the floor where the only other customer, an intimidatingly tall skeleton monster, peruses the volumes. Off to the side, plush leather sofas sit in all their marshmallow-soft glory, and you have to force yourself not to flop into one and pass out. 

You opt for a barstool instead. You order your coffee as well as a muffin (for the barista because the poor thing looks like she needs one) then plop down. It's no Lazy Boy, but it feels good to get off your feet. As you wait you scan the shelves, nostalgic for the days when you actually had the time to sit down and lose yourself in a book. If only you could stay here all night. Outside the sun is nearly set, the sky velvet lavender and blue, setting the perfect mood for a long, _long_ reading session. A familiar hunger gnaws at you. You want to devour a book, to drink it down, to savor every page until the last words of a tale buzz in your mind and you blink awake, the real world merely a haze around you. 

"HUMAN."

You yelp. Your body jars then dips back as you lose your balance. Your arms windmill uselessly as you scold yourself for choosing a _barstool_ of all seats, but your self-depreciation is cut short when firm hands grasp your shoulders and you're pulled forward, face to scarred face with the skeleton monster you saw before. 

He's sharp. His jaw, his cheekbones, his fingers as they clutch you – all razor-sharp. Even the lights that shine in his eye sockets – one of which sports three large gashes – seem to stab into you. The look he fixes you with is smug, triumphant, and... something else? There seems to be a sort of puzzled wonder swimming in that piercing gaze. You can't fathom why until you notice the faint glow of red magic on his face, an unmistakable blush. You put two and two together.

For a drunk man, his reflexes are incredible.

As you sit up you shift so your foot has a clear path to his shin. Thank goodness for steel-toe boots; they've saved you before and they'll save you again. You glance over the counter for the barista but she's not there, probably in the kitchen, which means you're without a witness if things go south. Damn. 

Your eyes fall to the pile of books now on the counter. There's a leather journal, a book on swords, a political novel, and... _Much Ado About Nothing_. Huh. Looks like tall, sharp, and drunk is a fan of Shakespeare. 

"HUMAN," he says again, and you're struck by how not drunk he sounds. His words aren’t slurred but clear and confident. That makes the fear in your gut twist even tighter. "YOU ARE NOT WHAT I WAS EXPECTING. NONETHELESS, I BELIEVE YOU SHALL MAKE AN ACCEPTABLE MATE. I AM TO ASSUME YOU FEEL THE SAME, GIVEN THAT YOU'VE ALREADY... FALLEN FOR ME, NYEHEH." 

What. In the _actual_ fuck?

You sputter as he lets go to gather his books, throwing his red scarf over his shoulder with a flourish. He gives you an expectant look. 

"WELL? COME ON."

He grabs for your wrist. Your voice finally bubbles past your chest, shrill with fear and indignance. 

"No!" you squeak. With a shake of your head, you scramble from the barstool. He steps toward you and you back away until you bump into the condiment stand. You grasp behind you until your hand closes around a heavy porcelain creamer. You wield it with a snarl, though you probably look as menacing as an angry chipmunk. " I’m not going anywhere with you! The hell is your deal, man?!"

The skeleton reels. From the look on his face you may as well have insulted him, his mother, slapped them both, then spit on him. Eyelights zone in on you, red pinpricks that remind you of laser sights on firearms. Specifically, the laser sights in movies that one only notices the half-second before they’re shot. He grinds his teeth with a _creeeaak_ that fills the whole shop. Just the sound makes your jaw ache.

“MY DEAL?” He bristles. “ _MY_ DEAL?! _YOU’RE_ THE ONE WITH A DEAL, HUMAN! CAN YOU NOT SEE HOW GRACIOUS I’M BEING IN THIS SITUATION?”

“What the he–”

“A PUNY FLESHBAG SUCH AS YOURSELF IS HARDLY MY FIRST CHOICE, BUT IF YOU ARE FATED FOR ONE SO GREAT AS I, YOU MUST HAVE POTENTIAL. THAT IS SOMETHING WHICH I AM WILLING TO WORK WITH. HOWEVER, YOU ARE MAKING THIS DIFFICULT.”

“Am I?” You choke, eyebrows shooting up and eyes wide. The nerve of this guy! “Am I making this difficult? Good!”

He huffs. With one stride he clears the space between you, pinning you to the stand with his chest. The hand not cradling his books pries the creamer out of your grip as you writhe against him. You growl and thrash best you can with a face full leather jacket. You kick, claw, and twist, but it seems your efforts are as futile as they are fierce until –

_Jackpot._ Your fingertips graze jagged edges; you’re sure you’ve found the gouges under his eye socket. With all your might, you dig your fingernails into the grooves and _rake_ down. 

“FUCK!” He jolts back. As he rubs his eye socket you gulp fresh air, unsure whether your assailant’s scarf was smothering you or if you were just too panicked to breathe. It doesn’t matter. You just need the breath for one scream. One shout for help. 

Then your air is gone. The wind is knocked out of you, replaced with cement that weighs your chest impossibly heavy. Your knees buckle, but to your surprise, you don’t fall. When you look down you find your body cast in a deep blue glow. 

The skeleton glares, clouds of red magic spilling from his eye sockets like mist from caves. His bony hand encircles your wrist, though his grip is surprisingly soft now, and he brushes his thumb over your pulse point. 

“BREATHE SLOW,” he instructs. “I HAVE NO INTENTION OF HARMING YOU, BUT I’M NOT GOING TO STAND HERE AND LET YOU STRIKE ME, EITHER.”

_Bullshit!_ You want to shriek. Instead, you take shallow breaths and try not to freak out.

“LOOK HERE,” he says. You don’t. He grasps your chin and tilts your head. Your wrist is still trapped, but with magic now instead of his hand. He holds his own arm out parallel to yours as if to prove a point. “DO YOU SEE THAT?” 

You don’t. Apparently, he takes your befuddled look to mean that you do.

“WE HAVE THE SAME MARK.”

You suppose you do if by ‘same mark’ he means ‘no mark at all.’ You shake your head at him in an attempt to convey how utterly lost you are. His eyeridges furrow. 

“THIS HERE???” he gives your wrist a little shake. “THIS IS A SOULMARK??? IT MATCHES MINE!”

You tilt your head. What kind of drugs is this man on?

The kitchen door swings open. Abruptly, the blue magic falls away. You’re released and the skeleton steps back to smooth his jacket and put on his best casual face. Still, he sneaks an odd glance your way. 

“Sorry for the wait!” the barista chirps. “I’m new here and – well, there are so many types of coffee! I had to remake –”

“No problem, sweetie. Worth the wait.” You snatch the paper cup with more force than you intend. “Have a good night.” 

With that, you spin on your heel. 

“O-oh! Hold on, your muffin!”

“Keep it!” 

* * *

Finally, you’re free. A cold breeze hits your face, fills your lungs, soothes your tired limbs. As much as you want to savor the night air, you can’t just stand here and wait for… for _Signior Mountanto_ to catch up. You rush to your truck. 

It’s an old rustbucket with a busted AC and a driver-side window that’s stuck halfway down. Her name is Dolly, and tonight she is your saving grace. As you throw yourself in you punch the lock, slumping in your seat with a groan. Just in time, too, because in the next moment Signior Mountanto bursts from the shop, phone in one hand and books in the other. You duck. 

“YES SANS, I’LL BE THERE SOON. DON’T RUSH ME!” The clack of heels approaches with his voice, and you hold your breath. 

“NOTHING IS WRONG! DON’T BE –”

He stops. _Right in front of your truck_. Is this what it’s like to be in a bad horror movie? Are you going to have to hit a monster with your truck to escape? You really can’t afford that damage…

Grumbling, Signior Mountanto moves on. _Clack, clack, clack._

“NO, SANS! I JUST – I–” There’s the click of a car door. Mountanto’s voice lowers, but not enough for you to miss his next words. “I MET MY SOULMATE.” 

Whatever he says next is drowned out by the rev of an engine, then you hear his car tear out of the parking lot. 

You sit up, dumbfounded. Is _that_ what he was on about? You – you can’t – _no_. Nope! You are _not_ going to worry about it! Not now, anyway. Later you can have a conniption or a drink or maybe even a pipe, but right now you just want to go home. You chug your coffee and start up the engine, blaring the radio to keep you focused. 

As you drive, you can’t help but glance at your wrist now and then. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :) This is my first work on AO3, so let me know if you notice any formatting problems. If you'd like to find me on Tumblr I'm @ebottcatacombs


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